


Simple Past

by mataglap



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Nobody is Dead, Yes there is a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 19:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15250392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: McCree's final words keep coming back to him:well, shit, uttered with terrifying calm seconds before the explosion.





	Simple Past

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on Tumblr: "'Returned from the Dead' kiss".
> 
> Everything ends well, I promise you straight away, but still, the tags don't lie, so be careful.

The operation is a disaster, and Hanzo is _furious_.

There had only been a few times in his life when he was so angry he could barely contain it, had to focus on keeping the dragons in check so much he had barely any presence of mind left to do other things, like communicating, or moving, or breathing. One was when his father died. Another was before Genji died. And now he's standing in front of a giant, smoking pile of rubble that used to be an eight-story building and there's fire in his lungs, and he wants to scream, to roar his fury through the maws of his dragons, but he can't even pull in enough air to breathe.

Jesse McCree is somewhere under that rubble. Correction: what remains of Jesse McCree is somewhere under that rubble. The charges went off throughout the first three floors, and McCree has the resilience of a cockroach, but even he can't survive a point blank explosion, eight floors' worth of collapsing concrete, and a fire to top it all off.

 _Had_ the resilience of a cockroach.

The anger does, at least, isolate him from the chaos around him, the screaming and crying, the blaring of sirens and car alarms, and fire alarms picking up all over the place. The noise comes as if through a thick wall of cotton, drowned out by the roar in his head. He stands there, shaking with the effort of not letting the dragons free to indiscriminately kill everyone in their path, until someone touches his shoulder and Hanzo instinctively lashes out. It's a vicious strike, meant to incapacitate or kill, but the hand on his shoulder belongs to Genji, and Genji knows him, so he intercepts the strike with a grunt of effort and holds it until the haze of fury dissipates and Hanzo realizes what he's doing.

Genji says something that he doesn't hear and insistently tugs on his sleeve. It does eventually occur to him that the law enforcement will arrive soon, that they can't stay here, lest they get the blame for the terrorist attack they just utterly failed to prevent.

There's no reason to stay anyway. There's nothing on McCree's corpse that can point back to them. If there's even enough of him left to identify.

Hanzo pulls his sleeve out of Genji's grip, ignores the sound of a ripping seam, and walks away, through the smoke and the chaos and the screams.

* * *

It's not the first time he's lost a friend, not by far. With one or two exceptions, everyone Hanzo had ever considered his friend has long been missing or dead. Normally, he would find a secluded place to mourn, light the incense, burn a candle, offer an earnest prayer to anyone or anything that might listen — but this time he's too angry to do it, he takes one look at the packet of incense and throws it at the wall with enough force that the sticks shatter, and the resulting smell makes him nauseated enough to chase him out of his own room.

McCree would mock him relentlessly for it, and then offer him a drink and an uninvited pat on the back, and prattle about something inconsequential until either amusement or irritation would make Hanzo forget the anger. 

Everyone gives him a wide berth, possibly due to Genji's interference, since he's definitely qualified to judge the destructive potential of Hanzo's wrath. Hanzo spends the first twenty-four hours after the return to the base alternating between two kinds of anger: the numb, seething, paralyzing fury and the kind of roaring rage that makes him put a fist through the drywall in his room. He can't even avoid a visit to the medbay after he does it, because he can't risk permanently damaging his right hand, but at least Mercy doesn't ask questions, just x-rays and wraps up his palm, red-eyed and silent herself, and gives him something for the pain that Hanzo immediately hides in the deepest recesses of his least used clothing drawer. The pain is welcome. It's grounding.

McCree's final words keep coming back to him: _well, shit_ , uttered with terrifying calm seconds before the explosion.

Forty-eight hours later, he gives in and checks the news. The attack is still all over the front pages, but there is no mention of Jesse McCree in any of the news sources he scours. His name is not on the official victim list, painfully short and littered with Johns and Janes Doe, so either they didn't find him yet or they didn't recognize him. Good. Hanzo surprises himself by how fiercely he hopes it stays that way. McCree's had his share of unjust charges already, he doesn't deserve getting accused of this sort of thing after he's —

— dead.

He's dead. It's been more than obvious for two days now, but only now Hanzo realizes with absolute, crystal clarity that he will _never_ hear that particular metallic knock on his door again. He will never have to roll his eyes at another terrible joke. They will never train together, or bicker over inconsequential things, or have a drink after a job well done. Hanzo will never have to wonder if McCree is just being overly friendly, or if it's maybe something more.

The word 'never' rattles in his skull, terrifying and incomprehensible in its finality.

They weren't even all that close. Just friends, buddies hanging out together, and yes, it's happened increasingly often over the last couple of months, but it was mostly at McCree's insistence, which he cheerfully and unabashedly admitted to whenever Hanzo sniped at him for being obnoxiously social — so Hanzo has no idea why he's suddenly crying, bent over where he's sat on the edge of his bed, fists at his temples, wracked with ugly, loud sobs that he can't hope to control.

At least the anger subsides somewhat after he exhausts himself completely, and the headache puts him to sleep, for the first time in two days.

* * *

On the fourth day, he gathers enough courage to ask Winston about the plans for McCree's leftover possessions.

"Technically, he's not dead. He's MIA," Winston replies, calm and absurdly grave for someone Hanzo has seen swinging upside-down from a tire more than once. "We're still searching. Mercy reached out through her contacts, collected some old favors. None of the remains recovered so far match McCree's DNA, but they're going to be digging for a long time—

Bile rises in Hanzo's throat, followed by blinding rage, but Winston doesn't deserve it, so he grits his teeth, turns on his heel and walks out.

He only realizes his feet carried him to McCree's room instead of his own when his hand hesitates over an unfamiliar keypad. He knows McCree's room code, had seen it entered more than once, waiting outside for McCree to pick up whatever it was that he needed, and he committed it to memory without a second thought, out of a lifelong habit of collecting information that could come useful at some point.

It would be unforgivably rude to intrude in someone else's room. But McCree is dead, Hanzo reminds himself, so he won't mind anyway, and even if he did mind, well, then he shouldn't have gotten himself killed in the most useless, pointless, _stupid_ way possible. He punches in the code and the door slides open, just like that, without fanfare, to a silent and empty room. Hanzo hesitates on the threshold, eyes flicking over the details — an unmade bed, a colorful serape hanging off a hook near the door, a small stack of books and a box of tissues on the nightstand, a collection of bottles lining one of the shelves, a cluttered desk, an open door to the bathroom — and it's so boringly normal, and yet so terrifyingly empty, that he almost turns and runs away.

He takes a deep breath and steps inside instead, and the door closes quietly behind his back.

The stale air smells faintly of the cigars McCree sometimes smokes, and nothing else. Hanzo swallows and walks slowly over the nondescript grey carpet to the desk and the mini-chaos that covers it: boxes of bullets, a speedloader, wire brushes, a dirty rag covering some sort of a bottle, two — no, three datapads, a switchblade, a lighter emblazoned with a cheesy skull logo, a —

— something?

Hanzo takes a step closer, and it takes him a long minute of confused staring at the object on the desk before he finally realizes what he's looking at.

It's an ashtray. An antique copper ashtray in the shape of a boot heel, complete with a tacky aluminum spur attached to it. Hanzo leans closer to read the small logo hand-painted on the front: _Butte, Mont_. The thing has to be at least two hundred years old, if not more, and it's so absurd next to McCree's other possessions in its tacky, coppery, polished glory, and so entirely _fitting_ , that Hanzo's lungs spasm with something similar to laughter. The sound is obscenely loud in the dead silence of the room. Another follows it promptly, and Hanzo backs away from the desk, trying to control himself, covering his mouth to stifle the noises as if it's going to help.

It doesn't. But Hanzo would rather avoid the indignity of going into hysterics over McCree's choice of souvenirs, so he looks around wildly with already wet eyes for something to distract himself with, and that's when he notices the picture on the wall above the desk.

He immediately recognizes the photograph, because it features him still without the undercut: it's the group picture they took at Tracer's insistence after their first major successful mission, back when there was only a handful of them and Hanzo still wasn't sure it was a good idea to stay. McCree's in it. He's standing slightly to the side, relaxed and smoking, eyeing the main group from under the brim of the hat, and between the hand with the cigar and the shadow of the hat his face is all but obscured, and somehow that is the last straw.

There won't be any more pictures, and for all the time they spent together, Hanzo doesn't have a single photo of McCree's face.

He ends up sitting on the floor at the foot of the messy bed, curled up on himself, crying like a child.

* * *

He wakes up stiff and completely disoriented. It's dark, he has no idea where he is, he's uncomfortable but not restrained — and after the first jolt of adrenaline subsides, he remembers: McCree's room. He must have fallen asleep. His phone buzzes in his pocket — that's probably what woke him up — and before he can clumsily pull it out, it buzzes again, incessantly, with a call. Who the hell is calling him in the middle of the night?

He squints at the display: it's Genji, and it's almost two in the morning.

He thumbs the 'answer' button. "What?" he croaks.

"Hanzo," Genji says, and pauses. Hanzo's body instantly goes back into full alarm mode, because his brother sounds like he's about to cry, but before he can speak past the sudden fear tightening his throat, Genji continues, tripping over the words. "He's alive. He's alive, somehow, Athena just picked up his signal and confirmed the biometrics, it's him, his vitals are bad but he's alive. Tracer is warming up the engines —"

"What," Hanzo manages, in a voice that sounds alien to his ears.

On the other side, Genji swears. "Wake up! McCree is alive! We're going to find him, leaving in ten, are you coming or —?"

"Yes," Hanzo breathes. "Wait for me," and he drops the call and all but lunges for the door, and fumbles blindly for the doorknob for ages before he remembers it's not his room, it's on the right side, not the left, and he takes off in a dead sprint, head completely empty of thought.

* * *

McCree's wounded, severely dehydrated, filthy and barely conscious, but he is alive.

Hanzo stands in the mouth of a smelly alley they found him in and watches Mercy attach an IV to his wrist. McCree says something, slurred and too weak to hear, and his head lolls to the left, followed by the whole body; Mercy starts, both hands occupied, but Genji, who's been hovering nearby, is at his side immediately and props him up before he can topple sideways, onto the pile of dirty blankets that must have belonged to a homeless person.

"Can you help us get him to the car?" Mercy asks sharply. "Hanzo?"

Hanzo jerks, as if waking up from a dream. He's been feeling like he's about to wake up for several hours now, and it's not going away, even now, as he moves forward on stiff legs. Up close, he realizes how much of that stench comes from McCree himself, as if he spent all this time in a sewer; he must have, he's covered in filth and blood, the entire right side of his head and neck and shoulder are black with it, in sharp contrast with how disturbingly pale he is.

Hanzo has seen better looking corpses.

"Watch his head, and careful with the IV," barks Mercy.

Hanzo crowds past her and crouches next to McCree, pulls the filthy, heavy arm up and around his neck. It's icy cold, and Hanzo is suddenly not only awake but _terrified_ , because that means he's going into or already in shock, and they're in a piss-smelling, garbage-filled alley with nothing but Mercy's bag of first aid supplies — but on McCree's other side, Genji starts counting, calm and steady, _three, two, one, up_ , and Hanzo pushes back the panic and focuses on getting McCree to the van as fast and steadily as possible.

Mercy hangs the IV on a coat hook, kneels next to the makeshift stretcher, covers McCree with a blanket and starts pulling items out of her bag. Hanzo closes the door behind them, walks over to the front of the car and realizes he has to wipe his hands on something before he can drive, and stares at them helplessly for a moment, completely out of ideas.

"Just use your t-shirt," Genji says impatiently. "It's already dirty, and we _have to go_." He hesitates for a split second and reaches out, squeezes Hanzo's shoulder, gives him a little shake. "He's alive, you know. Now that Angela is with him, he's going to be fine. Stop acting like you just saw his corpse. _Can you_ actually drive?"

Hanzo honestly considers the question, but he clearly takes too long, because Genji huffs, says "yeah, I didn't think so" and manhandles him by the shoulders towards the passenger's door.

* * *

McCree leaves the medbay in the evening of the next day.

Hanzo, who's been sitting in the horribly uncomfortable chair in the pseudo-waiting room and catching up on his reading queue, stands up so fast that the instantly forgotten tablet slides off his knees and clatters to the floor. McCree's no longer deathly pale, he's got a row of clean, neat stitches that start just under his hairline and disappear into his hair, he's holding a large water bottle, and most importantly, _he's alive_.

"Hey," he says, smiling widely at Hanzo's sight. "You have no idea how happy I am to —"

He breaks off with a grunt, because Hanzo walks right into him, covers the distance in two long steps and collides with him, just to feel how solid and alive he is, and embraces him so tightly his arms shake with the effort.

"— see you," McCree finishes, quieter. A hesitant hand lands between Hanzo's shoulder blades. "Lemme just get rid of this bottle, so I can hug you properly, yeah?"

Hanzo lets him go, plucks the bottle out of his fingers and drops it to the floor, where it rolls away and stops under a chair.

McCree laughs. "That works, I guess. C'mere then," he says, beaming and opening his arms, and Hanzo bypasses them, takes his face in both hands instead, rises on the balls of his feet and mashes their mouths together. It's entirely inelegant and ungentle, just a harsh press of lips that barely even qualifies as a kiss, and is entirely one-sided, and yet he can't stop, can't make himself pull away until the surprise passes and McCree's mouth twitches under the pressure.

He lets go and takes a step back. "I won't apologize," he says in a treacherously uneven voice. "You almost _died_. I thought you were _dead_. And now you're —" He runs out of words and makes a helpless gesture indicating McCree's state of _not being dead_. "So forgive me if —" and then he remembers he wasn't supposed to apologize and tries to backtrack, but there's nothing to backtrack to, he's run out of all rational thought and there's only an ocean of relief where all the rage used to be.

He wishes he could kiss McCree again instead of talking, but he's definitely exhausted his _I'm happy you're not dead_ allowance. He crouches instead, retrieves the water bottle, the plastic slightly dented but otherwise intact, and extends it towards McCree.

McCree looks at it as if he's never seen it in his life.

"I hope you won't hold this against me," Hanzo starts, suddenly self-conscious, because it didn't occur to him before that this sort of behavior could be destructive to their friendship, but now he definitely sees how it could.

McCree pulls the bottle out of his hand, tosses it behind him and takes a step forward, and Hanzo suddenly finds himself embraced at least as tightly as before.

"Truth be told, I thought I was dead, too," McCree says quietly into his temple. "And, just like I was always told, I didn't regret things I'd done, but I sure as hell regretted things I hadn't. Like this."

Hanzo exhales, considers, and decides he absolutely needs more details. "The hug?" he asks warily.

"Everything," McCree replies vaguely, and when Hanzo pulls away from his neck to demand clarification, he gets kissed instead, McCree's mouth insistent and pushy and very much alive.

"Let's do everything, then," Hanzo says somewhat breathlessly after an indeterminate amount of time, taking a step back and extending a hand, and McCree picks up his water bottle, grins, waggles his eyebrows obnoxiously and follows.

  



End file.
